Hunter's Moon

 

Statuegynous

Exhibition Viviane Sassen PHOSPHOR,

Maison Européenne de la Photographie, Paris (France)

(Click to expand)

in the subway

sleepy, serpentine subway

slithering in the pulsing deep

late train, perhaps the last one

carriages swinging lizardly

like elastic metronomes

one after the other, following suit

when they finally align

a violent explosion flares

at the far end of the train

the ball of fire quickly

engulfs everything

tongues lapping posters off

teeth ripping seats apart

claws slashing clothes

everyone wreathed in fire

muted cries of terror

sheer, primal panic in their eyes

the blaze shockwaves through

incinderate the bodies

yet I remain curious and calm

watching the fast-moving inferno

my last picture of this world

is that of a train exploding

relieved it’s the end of the line

a bit surprised I have to say

but welcoming quietude

ready, my time here done

feeling it in my old bones

like the storm before the storm

the heart beating freely, firmly

in the flash, bang and whimper

of the blast of the furnace

all turns to a film negative

dark-rimmed, pearly glass world

suspended

for a long time

— and then

resumes 

clearly —

as if

nothing 

will ever have

happened

when the illusion dissipates

unsurprised and poised

I remain curious, still 

equanimous, smiling

either are there

waiting

 

would you

If you miss someone you loved

and you still see them, somehow

faint, fraying silhouette in the fog

and you look for their ghost

on a park bench, on the sofa

in the café you used to go to

there as if in remanence

– what if you did

what if you saw them

what would you do

would you go to them

and ask

how do you do

do you miss me

even just a bit

can I sit with you

would you

and everywhere you find their face and traits,

trace their mannerisms, and smell

in everyone in the metro and on the bus

in every footstep you hear them

and every time your heart

misses a beat

you hope and dread

that it’s really them

– what if it were

what would you do

would you run after the metro

tap the person’s shoulder

turn them around

cup their face into your palms

and kiss them tenderly

would you

and you still think of them

watching a video, reading an article

baking a rhubarb crumble

for the world made more sense

and food tasted better with them

and conversation with strangers

and sex with strangers

feel dull and deepen the emptiness

– what if they suddenly called

would you pick up and tell them

the world disappeared comfortably

with them around you

with them in you

would you ask them what they think

because their voice

filled the void like no other

soothed the tinnitus

would you chat with them

until dawn like you used to

would you

and you imagine them

in someone’s arm, having sex

kissing, cuddling, embracing

and it wrenches your guts

and you still extend your arm in bed

in the silent dark of nights

your fingers expecting to touch their body

– what if you did, what would you do

would you hug them so hard

you couldn’t breathe

would you say you’re sorry

tell them you’re happy

now you’re in their arms again

would you

would you

At land's end

(Port-Saint-Père, France, 2020)

Steady flow

"Inspiration does not come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving, but it comes into us slowly and quietly and all the time, though we must regularly and every day give it a little chance to start flowing, prime it with a little solitude and idleness."

Brenda Ueland, journalist, writer (1891-1985)

 

Cloud-of-pearl

 

 (cloud iridescence, for those wondering)

 

Évariste

Évariste lying in the grass, face up

probably felt the dew soak his shirt

realised it was his own, cooling blood

perhaps serene he had laid down

his numbers to rest, his words to rest

his mind perhaps churning more

connections of higher orders

as life became clearer ebbing away

perhaps he saw another version of himself

die as well, die again, die afresh

perhaps he saw Évariste, face down

lying in the sky, hand pressed to his chest

perhaps terrified that time now

converging in with all the momentums

life, death, love, hate, tragedy, comedy

aware that the hardest battles

the ones with the highest cost

are fought in the mind and in the heart

bring inertia to stillness in pure velocity

fathomed the symmetries can’t just stop here

have to fold in on themselves, coil and recoil

as breathing, as in the awe of the storm

until the most formidable of lights

encased in filaments of darkness

bore him into interwoven infinities

inside of which everyhim,

everywhen, everywhere

finally made the sense

the numbers pointed to

Fragment #121

what if equilibrium

were a fractalled mirror

what if we held it

half of it in the light

half of it in the darkness

and looked at ourselves

would we not cry

Mirror, mirror

“There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.”

in On the concept of History, aka Theses on the Philosophy of History (1940), by Walter Benjamin (1892-1940)

An fharraige, i ngach áit

 

Cill Maoilchéadair, Murreagh, Ireland (2019)

to heal

fissure in the heart

light water weed seagulls in

ocean-bathèd wound

Filinz

he sez he wans us intimet

that he luvz me

so i duz wot he sez

i wan kissiz an hugz

but he duzn

he sez he wans my hart

but my but to

wen he comome

late an drunk

his handz en ma throat

an mout

i cant screem

he smelz ov uver wimin

but i cant leav him

i luv him

an he luvz me

an hiz intimet wiv me

wen nowun els duz

he luvz me

an a litel pain iz ok

iz ok he sez

but less i sez

sumtymz less

sumtymz mor he sez

he sez hel be beter

if im hiz an if i duz

wot he sez

he sez we doneed filinz

filinz hurt but i don inersten

luv heelz it duzn hurt

buthen hiz sad

so i let hiz finguz in me

surchin an

he forsiz me

to open ma mout

an swalo bud i

donwan an he lafs

an pushiz an pushiz

an lafs an kumz

an i cryz bud he duzn care

hez gun hez alwez gun

he duzn sleep hear

hez alwez gun

an i alwez cryz

im despret

he sez he needz me

bud he duzn i no

hez gun an leevz me

alwez leevz me

i wana die

mebe hel care

Aporia

deep rumbles through

the soft tissues

absolute skinquake

folded in the flesh

the sentiment

nested like an origami

waiting to unfold into

another shape with the

pulse of a wild horse

lain slain in pain

gushing blood all over

severed arteries

on the brink of breath

eyes wide as quasars

the heart extracted

in our own capable hands

impossible anomaly yet

alive alive alive

Here Are My Black Clothes

 

I think now it is better to love no one
than to love you. Here are my black clothes,
the tired nightgowns and robes fraying
in many places. Why should they hang useless
as though I were going naked? You liked me well enough
in black; I make you a gift of these objects.
You will want to touch them with your mouth, run
your fingers through the thin
tender underthings and I
will not need them in my new life.

in The House on Marshland (1975), by Louise Glück, American poet and Nobel prize in literature (April 22, 1943 - October 13, 2023)

 

Before the frost

 

Montlivault (France), 2018

Unmovable

 

I have built entire cities

blown rivers off their course

levelled mountains to nought

wrote whole libraries

shaped universes

the only thing I couldn't move

which proved too much

for my hands and my heart

was you

 

Azure eye

 

Pornichet (France), 2021

Suspended in light

 

if/and

 
If I were a piece of paper,
I’d probably burn myself.

If I were a car, I’d crash
or run myself over a cliff.

If I were a particle, I’d box
myself in with a cat, and wait.

But I am none of these things,
I am not sure of what I am, exactly.

I am not sure of what I am not either,
but that hasn’t got me very far.

Perhaps, perhaps I should be
and not be any and all of these things.

If I were a piece of paper,
I am turning myself into a poem.

If I will be a car, I ought to
visit every corner of the world.

If I also am a particle, I am a cat
and a box and I awake and sleep.

In case of doubt, I should be and do
all and nought, unbe and undo all.